The
Bootneck
Quentin Black
Copyright © 2017 Quentin Black
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1527207153
ISBN-13: 978-1527207158
DEDICATION
To Colin and Peggy Lewis
PROLOGUE
‘Bootneck’ is a term used for a British Royal Marine. The origin is believed to derive from Marines—in the days of old—cutting the top from a leather boot and wearing it around their necks to prevent sailors cutting their throats.
In modern times, the title ‘Bootneck’ is one of respect and endearment used within the Royal Marine Corps. It describes a Marine with a reputation of a high level of soldiering ability, combined with an adherence to its Ethos.
“There are Marines…and there are Bootnecks
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Lee Barret, Dean Robertson, Jon Knowles, Jason Gardiner and Holly Mew for supporting myself and this project.
To Dave Kenyon for your beta reading.
To Jessica Delaney for your proofreading.
To Andy Screen for the cover design.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Any specific terms and phrases have been highlighted in italics and can be found in the glossary.
1
He lay motionless on an insulated foam mat. He was invisible to the naked eye, within a hide on the edge of the wood. The crisp winter darkness had descended over the woodland and meadow before him. The midnight frost on the grass gave notice to the cold attempting to bite him through his layers of clothing. The butt of the sniper rifle nestled into the crease of his shoulder, with the barrel resting on the lip of a sandbag.
He’d spent the night just seventy-two hours prior digging in and constructing the hide. The plastic bottle of urine and a securely tied bag of his human waste lay in the rear left corner. His rations and a can of petrol—an unfortunate necessity—were entrenched in a hole covered with a steel panel, in the rear right corner.
Per his laser range finder binoculars, he lay 189 metres away from the target house. His gaze concentrated on the entrance of the old English manor.
Part of the upper floors on the side of the house that he could see were made of a white stone wall, separated with chestnut oak. There was a huge extension built onto the side which he knew extended the dining hall and kitchen. It also housed a spare bedroom with an en-suite bathroom. This brought the bedroom total to five. The driveway resembled a small pub’s gravel car-park. Around and beyond the house lay an expanse of open countryside enclosed by tall, winter sparse trees.
When he first set eyes on the abode, a feeling washed over him akin to seeing an old red telephone box in an English village—a sense of nostalgia of a time before he was alive.
The sniper was now in his mid-twenties, and a couple of inches shy of six feet. The light brown hair cut into a ‘one back and sides’, and a foreign sun had bleached the tips.
He looked down at the house from a thirty-degree angle—it was always an advantage to be on the high ground in any type of firefight. His sharpened senses assessed every noise and movement around him—as ancient men had, before they became civilised. Indeed, the hair growth, made his symmetrical features appear more feral than usual.
In the three days of reconnoitring the target from his observation post, he’d identified four bodyguards working a rotation. They took turns to cover the night shift with the other three dividing the rest of the day.
Tonight, they were all present.
He ascertained by their well-fitting suits that three were not armed. Close protection advisors wore loose suits if armed, to help hide any tell-tale bulges of weapons or body-armour. Judging by the way the fourth bodyguard’s suit swelled under the armpit, he was wearing a chest rig with a pistol.
The wind whipped the light rain into a curve, and it collected on the leaves of the trees surrounding the hide. The droplets fell from them percolating through the ghillie camouflage, and the poncho underneath that formed the roof of the hide. This resulted in an irregular but cold drip down the collar of his black Rab Neutrino jacket. His trapezius muscle contracted involuntarily with every drop.
“For fuck sake,” he murmured, realising he’d not checked the poncho lining thoroughly enough when packing it.
He’d read that in the past, the Chinese would chain a detainee under an irregular cold drip, for however long it took, until the prisoner ‘broke’ and confessed. He could well believe in the effectiveness of the technique.
He could not afford to take his eyes off the house now. A simple Google search revealed that the politician would be soon leaving for a meeting.
A suited Stephen Hardcastle preened himself in the mirror of his room, using a comb to sweep his professionally dyed black hair to one side. He was thankful that it had receded only an inch or two from his youth. The collar of his suit had been loosened as to not over-emphasise his double chin. The rest of the suit did its best to hide the bulges of fat spread over his body, particularly the portly hips at which the trouser belt pinched.
Hardcastle tried not to let his obesity bother him; Winston Churchill and Napoleon were both big men, and like them, he felt his bulk added a sense of power to his presence.
He was about to meet with a consortium of investors. They needed his influence to push through a piece of profitable legislation. This bill would allow for the building of private housing, which would cut into the ‘green zone’ of the London Borough of Merton.
Hardcastle’s backing came at a major fee as he would have to pull in a few favours. Expansion in this world was inevitable and he may as well be the one to benefit from it.
A smile danced on his lips as he thought of this payment—and the young East European girl who would be sharing his bed tonight, courtesy of a discreet contact.
A high-ranking Met police officer put him in touch with this ‘provider’ almost ten years ago.
This provider had never let the politician down with his taste.
The Right Honourable Stephen Hardcastle liked them young—too young to be deemed legal by the sovereign judicial system but acceptable in other parts of the world. If he’d been born in Angola, he mused, the law would have accommodated his sexual tastes—most of them, at least. Even the authorities in Thailand and Cambodia would turn a blind eye.
Besides, if it wasn’t him, then it would only be someone else taking pleasure from them. At least he didn’t hurt them as much as some did.
He’d also indulged himself in many what he termed ‘strays’ in his fifty-three years, all of which had been deliciously unexpected and the allure too irresistible. Strays, although exciting, were dangerous, as there was no knowing if one would tell tales.
This provider had always ensured a sense of discretion which was an obvious necessity.
As the sniper looked over his optical sight and shifted a little to get some blood flow into his well-muscled physique. He thought of the ‘interrogation’ he would put Hardcastle through.
He felt a small wave of pleasure course through him. It was a pleasure comparable to the moment immediately before deciding to hit a bully.
This time, it was magnified tenfold. Acting purely of his own accord, he could be caught and sent to spend the rest of his life in prison. Still, he couldn’t let this go. He’d never forgive himself—nor should I.
The country house lay isolated two miles from its nearest neighbour. He had confidence that the sound of any weapon’s rapport wouldn’t be an issue. He originally thought of ways to bypass the harming of the bodyguards.
However, after learning that they’d protected this monster for three years, the desire left him. They must have been aware of Hardcastle’s insidious nature he knew, besides, living witnesses woul
d only complicate the issue.
Boredom gnawed at him, but he resisted the urge to switch on his phone; he hadn’t looked at it since his arrival. In the far distance, he could see a road running along a hill that formed the backdrop to the house and valley floor. His eyes picked out the lone headlights of a car, and he smiled, indulging in his ‘soldier’s illusion’. The fantasy often occurred on sentry during cold, wet nights like these. The soldier sought comforting thoughts to distract himself from the damp boredom of his surroundings. On this occasion, the sniper imagined the occupant of this car was heading home to his stunning wife, who would hand him his slippers. She’d serve him a sumptuous meal by a coal fire—then follow this with great sex.
Ordinarily, he would have swapped places with the driver in an instant. Many a Marine fantasised about resigning from the military—putting his chit in—at these times. It didn’t matter that these firefly-like headlights moved through the dead of night, and the driver was likely to be a nightshift worker—dog tired—about to creep into bed to avoid waking a nagging wife.
Hardcastle was in his wine cellar looking for the Moet & Chandon Dom Perignon Oenotheque Rose, and the Chateauneuf du-Pape. These bottles were to be gifts for the provider. It was these little personal touches that made all the difference.
He cast his mind back to the last stray he’d indulged in a couple of months previous—she had been a cherubic looking, blonde eleven-year-old from West Yorkshire.
Hers was the last school in several he’d visited in that uncouth area of the city. The media had been in tow for the first few he’d visited but now were absent after having their fill. Hardcastle and the girl’s path had crossed in the corridor as he left the toilet. She had passed him, squeezing her bleeding finger en route to the ‘staff room for a plaster’ she’d said. He had told her he’d some in his car and directed her there. After a coded message to his head bodyguard standing by, he’d followed her. Once they were both in the car, he put the plaster on himself.
He asked for a kiss.
After a moment, the girl leant to peck him on the cheek. The sound of the central locking being activated had shook an expression of incomprehension onto her face.
He’d enjoyed exploring her immensely, but he’d had to restrain himself from going further at the sight of her tears.
Usually they just froze.
Her absence might have been noticed if she was away for much longer and the sight of a tear-stained face may have led a member of the school staff to ask questions. He told her that this was their secret and girls who told tales upset their families forever.
When confident she’d got the message and her face was dry, he disengaged the central locking. Watching her walk back in an obvious daze, he’d admonished himself with how reckless he’d been.
Then again, it was fate that had put this delicious, unexpected opportunity in front of him; it wasn’t as if he’d actively sought it out.
That had been nearly two months ago.
Now he climbed the stairs and saw his bodyguards in the hallway waiting to depart.
“Excuse me, I have to visit the little boy’s room,” he said.
He spent a few minutes in one of the house’s four bathrooms, before emerging a little red faced to greet his security team.
Hardcastle recognised the prudence in having bodyguards, given the dealings he was involved in. However, he didn’t really think anyone would be foolish enough to get physical with him. Hardcastle had risen through the political world to attain power. Having four no-necked lackeys was a testament to the stature he’d achieved. All men of power, from emperors and kings through to music moguls and film stars, had always had minions. It had been this way since time immemorial. They were chosen more for their discretion to his lifestyle rather than their professional quality in protecting him. They carried out all manner of errands and money kept their compliance.
It was evident to the MP that he had to be politically astute. Politics wasn’t about what you did, but what you appeared to do and relationships cultivated with the correct people. To obtain true power one had to forgo his moral compass somewhat and understand that money was power.
So, when offered £1.9 million in exchange for the addresses of four high-ranking MI5 staffers, he had accepted. The offer came from a barrister. Who could prove that he himself knew the barrister to be corrupt? Who was to say what the addresses were for anyway?
He mused that he was born in the wrong era. If he’d existed in Roman times, he’d have been an emperor. In those times, the pursuit of power or pleasure had been considered the right of the elite.
That must have been a grand age of civilisation.
The sniper jerked out of his daydream as the door opened. He began to test and adjust his position. He watched two of the burly minders make their way to separate black Audis and drive away—maybe they have gone ahead to survey the meeting site. Sometimes a close protection advisor would park in a pre-selected space thus preserving it for the client’s vehicle.
He would be surprised if these mongs did that.
After five minutes elapsed, the third bodyguard stepped out with an obligatory cursory glance. Hardcastle followed, tailed by the last guard.
Connor Reed waited for the natural pause at the end of his breath while lining up the crosshairs of the sight.
He began to squeeze the trigger evenly.
2
Nick Flint let out a quiet yawn. He’d run surveillance on Hardcastle for twelve days now. Most of that time, he’d sat in a monitoring truck staring at a multitude of screens.
At thirty years of age, his once bright ginger hair had mellowed into a rustic brown. The teenage acne had mercifully left only a few pock marks on an otherwise clean-cut face
He leant back from the monitor and pinched his stomach—Not bad but not as ripped as I once was.
Back in his Army career he’d been a Physical Training Instructor. He often wondered if those were the best years of his life. At least he’d got to exercise every day, and there was no fat on his five-feet-nine-inch frame. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be long until he was back in his hometown of Salford with his wife.
He commanded a surveillance team of nine men with three on rotation in the truck parked two miles away from the stately home. The other six were split into two cars and a van parked in different points ready for mobile reconnaissance.
Drumming his fingers on the table, he blinked several times. The civilian perception of his job often contrasted with the reality of it. He remembered speaking to a paramedic who told him the same thing—that the majority of his call outs were dealing with the elderly falling over, not major road traffic accidents as depicted on television.
Nick might have been used to fighting the monotony of staying alert for details during hours of surveillance, but he’d never liked it.
Nonetheless, observation formed a large part of what he did in this black ops unit. There’d been a dip in his enthusiasm for this work for a while now—a steady ebb over the past year or so. It strained his family life, the hours were long and could be very monotonous. The danger and thrills were few and far between.
Nevertheless, he was a patriot and stuck with it in the hope his keenness would return.
Secret cameras and audio bugs captured the surveillance footage. The two ex-Special Reconnaissance Regiment operators on the team had installed these into Hardcastle’s home. The audio from the cameras overlooking the grounds to the manor was grainy but could be cleared up after recording.
The installation had involved a sizable risk. Hardcastle employed bodyguards whose CVs stated they were well versed in anti-surveillance measures. However, upon considering their backgrounds, it was clear to Nick they were employed more as a visual deterrent rather than for their professionalism in protecting Hardcastle—‘All show and no go.’
There was a difference between close protection advisors and bodyguards. The former pre-empted and avoided situations that would put the client in danger of any
kind. The latter were simply reactive to it.
Nick thought of his friends in the Royalty and Specialist Protection team; they didn’t look particularly intimidating, but their effectiveness spoke for itself. Too often people could be over or underestimated depending on their size alone. These assumptions were naïve and could be grave in the wrong circumstances.
Cameras now hid in every room of the house as well as overlooking the immediate grounds to the property.
Hardcastle’s indiscretions had come to the attention of Nick’s employer a few months back. They included fraud, corruption and blackmail on a grand scale.
Also, he had a penchant for very young girls. Some not older than ten years.
Nick wasn’t so naive as to expect an order to assassinate the paedophile immediately. He knew the next year or two was going to be tedious. He’d seen this before—the idea would be to track Hardcastle so that they could ascertain just how deep his corruption went and who else was involved. Then ‘higher-ups’ would have probably used Hardcastle for their purposes rather than truly to punish him for his crimes. However this time, Nick was part of a unit overseen by a man who would seek retribution.
He adjusted his posture. Their planted microphones made him aware Hardcastle was about to leave.
“All call signs, the target is preparing to leave”, he radioed through to the rest of the team, who all replied came back,
“Roger.”
“Roger.”
“Roger that.”
He watched the heavy oak door open from the surveillance captured by the overhead camera viewing the grounds. He alerted his colleagues to prepare the revolving tail.
The Bootneck Page 1
